


Postcards

by houndsoflove



Category: The Who
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houndsoflove/pseuds/houndsoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith and John take a holiday, 1966.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Horizons

The beach stretched away in both directions. The sand and the sea were the same expired, sodden grey as the sky, and the surf broke them in two, as uniform as a chalk line. Tiny fishing boats in the distance drifted on an asthmatic tide, insignificant against a backdrop of ominous purple.

John’s memories of the holiday consisted of carefully ordered images, sensations and scents; some combined, some fragmented and elusive. This is the first, and the most enduring; Keith silhouetted on the balcony, frozen in the middle of taking his first big lungful of sea air - air that was warm and thick, sulfurous and with a just hint of sun cream - interrupting the backdrop of the stormy sky and the little boats, in a light shirt and shorts, his legs turning brown already. John bit back his complaints about the tediousness of the airport, and the un-Spanishness of the weather, and the heat and the flies and the tourists, because Keith happened to be there. Just Keith. Him and Keith, alone, in another land.

Complaints were for postcards, besides.

Like a reel of film, aged and with a yellowish, sun-drenched tint, the memory leaps into life again and Keith turns to him, grinning hugely beneath a pair of enormous sunglasses.

‘This is alright, innit?’

John had to agree.

 

The weather the next day had been better. Still hot, but a bright and luxuriant heat, rather than oppressive; perfect for lazing in, which is what they decided to do. At midday they walked up and down the beach, squinting at the horizon, then wandered inland for food. They ate a seafood stew, John recalled; gaping clams and mussels in a thin red sauce. They didn’t talk much. Keith was watching the people that passed, or rather, the girls - locals and tourists - all slim, caramel-skinned. They paid no attention to him. ‘Let’s go out tonight, hm?’ he said, his mouth full of food. John nodded. Keith caught the eye of a dark-haired girl, who smiled at him in return. He straightened up, twisting exaggeratedly in his chair so that he could follow her progress down the street until she vanished round a corner. John looked down at the table, his insides coiling and prickling unpleasantly. He reached into his bowl for something to do. The empty mussels were oily to the touch. He broke their hinges one by one, enjoying the brutal little _snap_ they made between his fingers.

At four they returned to the hotel in order to shower and dress for the evening. Keith read his postcard to Kim aloud as he wrote while John buffed the toes of his shoes and tried not to listen. The sliding door to the balcony stood open, inviting in a breeze and the music that drifted up from the street below, along with the splutter of mopeds and a tangle of excitable voices. Tiring of his low mood, John decided that he was going to make an effort to look forward to the night ahead. He laid his own postcards on the bedside table and spread them out. _Sunny Torremolinos. Beautiful Torremolinos._ _¡Hola!. Wish You Were Here!_ He picked up the last one, gazed at it, then returned it to the pile. He selected another, featuring a garishly hand-coloured photo of the sweeping crescent-shaped beach. He picked up a pen.

‘Dear Alison...’

 

The streets were as packed and noisy at night as they had been during the day. They shouldered their way from bar to bar beneath garlands of bulbs and colourful awnings until they found themselves on the long road that ran parallel to the beach. Another bar, another round of drinks. John held their perspiring glasses aloft and turned around before realising he’d lost Keith somewhere between the stools and the curbside. He bellowed his name. A parade of happy faces jostled around him, making it difficult to see. He waded forwards, annoyance stinging him in the gut. Where had Keith run off to?

Another image, now, but only a glimpse; Keith emerging through a break in the crowd, in the act of inclining his head as he spoke directly into the ear of a girl he’s just met. Everything in the bar was red; the lights, the walls, the upholstery. Keith and the girl were painted in red. His words disturbed the delicate pendant of her earring. No scents or sounds came attached, but John recalled a sort of hollowness, and the way his pulse ebbed sluggishly in his stomach. The girl shook her pretty head; an apologetic gesture. She walked away.

John began to breathe again. Dejected, Keith pushed back through the punters, towards the door.

‘Oi, Keith!’ John yelled, attempting to follow without spilling beer on anyone’s head. ‘Come back!’

He found him again a few minutes later, some way off, leaning against a rusting balustrade and smoking. There was a stranger talking to him; a distinguished-looking man, blandly handsome, his immaculate hair wilting with sweat. John approached them slowly. Though from a distance they appeared to be deep in conversation, it soon became clear that the man was simply talking at Keith while Keith stared nonchalantly ahead, not speaking. The man’s entire body leaned precariously in Keith’s direction, an overreaching attempt at casualness. ‘You and I, we’ll go to Tony’s,’ he heard the man say - he was English, well-spoken - and he nudged Keith’s arm. ‘What do you say to that?’ They didn’t seem to notice John drawing nearer. John looked on gleefully, eager to see how Keith would deal with the situation.

Undeterred by his silence, the stranger shuffled closer. ‘My hotel is just a short walk from here,’ he added, lower this time, though loud enough still for John to hear. ‘The Pez Espada.’ Keith inclined his head towards the man, a deliberate, sensuous movement identical to the one he’d used with the girl in the bar; his chin dipped and his dark eyes swept sideways, meeting the stranger’s earnest gaze. His jaw worked minutely. John hung back, disturbed by the change in atmosphere. One hazy second ticked by, stained red. Keith rolled his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. He hadn’t said yes - but then, he hadn’t said no. John, in that moment, became horribly, absurdly excited. His heart throbbed in his eardrums, a phantom hint of blood on his palate. But in the blink of an eye Keith’s voice was there to extinguish his thoughts, brash and all too sudden.

‘There you are, John! Where are you going with those? They’ll be warm by now!’

John realised he was still holding their drinks.

The stranger sprang upright and scurried away, stiff-legged and with his hands stuffed deep inside his pockets. Keith watched him go, the suggestion of a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John shot him a questioning look.

‘A funny sort,’ said Keith simply. John hadn’t the courage to make him elaborate.

 

Inevitably, Keith found a girl to go back with him.

John sat on the loo seat in their hotel bathroom with the lights off, drunk. He swayed in the turbulent darkness, eyes shut, trying to block out the animal heaving and shunting that assaulted him through the wall behind his head.

At long last, it stopped, and he decided it was safe to come out. He went to check his watch, then realised he couldn’t see it.

The room was black and fuggy. He could almost taste the sweat; it mingled unpleasantly with the nauseating tang of bile in his mouth.

He felt his way back to his bed and found that the girl was inside it. ‘You’re in my bed,’ he informed her, loudly and irritably. Keith shushed him from the other side of the room. Moonlight glanced romantically off the curve of the girl’s cheek as she rolled over and looked up at him. ‘You’re in my bed,’ John said again. ‘Do you speak English?’

The girl smiled and peeled back the covers. She was completely naked underneath them. He gave in, making abortive, dispassionate love to her until he grew too tired and she too bored to continue. He let her stay, however; there was comfort to be found in Keith on her skin, present in her warmth and in a lingering hint of cologne. He held her close, briefly content, and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

The next few days blurred together, a fairly uneventful blend of sunburn, seawater and local beer. John had been enjoying himself but was distracted at best, unable to let go of the questions he had surrounding Keith's interaction with the strange man the other night. Keith, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten the encounter altogether. Eager to meet more girls, he'd stay out long after John had gone back to their room, combing the street and the hotel bar. There was a slight coolness in his attitude today, an edge of displeasure lurking just beneath the surface.

John picked up a discarded brochure from a neighbouring lounger and flicked through it. ‘What d’you want to do tomorrow? There's a carnival.’ Keith didn't want to go to the carnival, or to see the church of San Miguel, and he’d rather die than visit the Casa de los Navajes. ‘Alright then, how ‘bout a bullfight?’ This suggestion seemed to appeal to Keith a little more - John supposed it was the promise of violence - but then his expression dropped again, and he picked up his sunglasses and posted them sharply onto the bridge of his nose. That was a no, then.

‘How about I go on my own?’ said John, not bothering to disguise the irritation in his voice.

‘Could do,’ answered Keith eventually, in a way that suggested talking to him was a waste of precious energy.

John turned to look at the pool, his gaze drifting over the heads and flailing arms and legs that churned through the water. His insides pinched with worry. He'd done something to upset Keith, though he didn't know what. ‘What's the matter?’ he asked quietly beneath the clamour of the other hotel guests.

‘Nothing,’ was Keith’s short reply. He’d taken the brochure and was tearing it into little pieces on his lap.

That night there was an argument.

John pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, gleaning whatever shred of comfort Alison's voice could offer him. ‘What do you mean? Of course I've been good.’ He was acutely aware of Keith behind him, listening. ‘Honest. All I've thought about is you this entire time. I can't wait to see you again.’

He hung up. The call went well, John thought. He'd meant most of it.

Keith cast him a flinty look from where he reclined on his bed. ‘I knew it,’ he said, before John could ask him what was wrong.

‘Knew what?’

‘You'd rather be at home than here with me.’

‘No,’ said John, taken aback, the delay in his response inevitably left open to misinterpretation. Panic took hold as Keith sat up and looked straight at him. ‘All you've done is mope around,’ he continued dangerously. ‘At least now I know why.’

John's mind fumbled blindly for something that would placate him. ‘Well, I do miss Alli,’ he stumbled out. ‘I mean, you miss Kim, don’t you?’ This, apparently, was not the right thing to say.

‘If you don't want to be here then just go home.’

‘But I'm enjoying myself! Look, Keith, what’s gotten into you? You’re being ridiculous-’

‘I said go home!’ Keith was on his feet, in the grip of a volcanic fury that John knew he was powerless to stop. ‘Go home,’ he shouted. ‘Fuck off!’

That night they had an argument. That night, John kissed him.

He'd always tried to forget that part.

Keith went rigid in his grip, stunned into silence. There was nothing sweet about it; just an unfortunate clash of flesh and teeth, the horrified clench of Keith's biceps beneath his hands, long eyelashes and the pink smear of his mouth before he wrenched himself away, clawing at the bottom half of his face. His speechlessness was far more terrifying than his anger.

‘I'm sorry,’ said John, astonished at himself. ‘I dunno what I was thinking- what came over me-’

But Keith was already out of the door, leaving it banging on the latch.

 

John didn’t follow. He sat on the edge of his bed for an hour, watching the crack in the door for Keith’s return. The sun sank below the balcony. The leaning shadows made it looks as if the walls were closing in on him. Nothing within the stylish rigidity of the room could hold his attention for long, but he daren’t move, just in case. He’d wait.

 

One hour became three. Three hours became five.

 

‘Fine, I’ll go,’ muttered John through his teeth, shoving toiletries viciously back into his suitcase. ‘Fuck you. Fuck _you_.’

  
The clock read quarter past two. The town was gradually drifting into an eerie slumber. John laid in bed, still watching the door - closed now, but unlocked - leaden with misery. Why had he done it? Why did he have to be so foolish? Keith was probably hopelessly drunk by now, propped up in some strange place without a friend to help him home. John’s head hurt. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t.

He had to wait for Keith to come back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an attempt at a multi-chapter fic that will probably end up making no goddamn sense, but here goes nothing...  
> Keith and John did in fact go on holiday to Spain shortly after the birth of Keith's daughter, but with Kim and Alison in tow. According to Keith's biography, 'Dear Boy', the two of them were well-behaved in front of their respective partners. However, an encounter with a man who flirted with Kim prompted a violent, deranged reaction from Keith that left his wife very shaken. I'd like to add that I don't want to gloss over or rewrite Keith's behaviour in this fic, this is just a 're-imagining' of events. And with that said, I hope you liked this first chapter!  
>  **References:**  
>  Torremolinos - A popular up-and-coming resort town in Spain. Some might recognise it as the same place that John Lennon and Brian Epstein went for their infamous holiday a few years prior.  
> Tony's - Spain's first gay bar, opened in Torremolinos in 1962.  
> The Pez Espada - A luxury beachside hotel built in the early sixties.  
> The Church of San Miguel, Casa de los Navajes: Both popular tourist sites in Torremolinos.


	2. Hive Full of Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Keith's main pal in the band became John. They were hysterically funny together, and shared an apartment for a while. Roger and I got the impression that they did almost everything together, including having sex with girls. It must have been mayhem."_  
>  \- **Pete Townshend, _Who I Am_**

The first evening in their new home was spent amongst stacks of boxes, the pair of them sat on the bare wooden floor of what was soon to be the living room. Keith retrieved the record player and set it down in a clear space.

‘Oh,’ said John, disappointed. ‘I’ve only got mum's music in here. I must’ve got the boxes mixed up. Mine’s probably at the house still.’

Keith sighed. ‘Just stick anything on. I’m bored.’ John did as he was told.

 

Quarwood was sleeping now. He could hear that record in his head, word for word, the lyrics riding in on a swooning sugar melody. If you had been there you would have seen his lips move, just barely, the skeleton of a tune creaking past them every now and then. His eyes never left the window, even though the sun had long since gone down and the grounds were unlit.

 

‘ _Once I had a secret love_ , _that lived within the heart of me._..’

 

‘God, John, what is this? Turn it off!’

‘You told me to put anything on.’

‘I meant something _good_.’

John shrugged and lifted the needle from the record. ‘It’s all we’ve got in the flat, Keith.’

There’s nothing worse than silence, or empty minutes, or nights where there is nothing else to do but sleep.

Keith broke Doris Day over his knee and tossed her in two pieces through an open window.

‘Keith!’ John was laughing, even though he was annoyed. ‘That wasn’t yours to break!’

It was Keith’s turn to shrug. His foot wagged restlessly and his fingers drummed. ‘Well, what can we do?’

 

‘.. _.soon my secret… became impatient to be free_...’

 

There were peonies on the bedroom walls, fat pink flowerheads that climbed from floor to ceiling. John remembered that. He’d count them when he couldn’t sleep.

 

‘ _So I told a friendly star._..’

 

He heard the latch go. Whispers and giggles.

 

_The way that dreamers often do..._

 

His bedroom door swung open. He sat up, blinking against the hallway light that shot across his room like a spotlight. Keith was stood there, his arm around a girl he didn’t know, and they were laughing, gawping at him in his patterned pyjamas and with his nightly read turned carefully pages-down beside the lamp.

‘Oops,’ spluttered the girl, bottle in hand, her face alarmingly red. ‘Wrong room.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Keith, and smiled.

 

_Just how wonderful you are..._

 

_Here’s an idea, John._

 

The girl’s hair was smothering him, silky tendrils of it clinging to his sweaty face.

 

_What?_

 

An arm - he wasn’t sure who's - made a swipe for the bottle on the bedside cabinet. The girl lurched for it, suckling through a web of damp hair. It came to him next, tipping up over his waiting mouth. Lukewarm whisky splashed his chin and soaked into the pillows. Keith was the last to drink, swilling the rest before hurling the bottle across the room. A chorus of breathless, muddled laughter. John saw Keith’s fingers dimple the flesh of her hip. ‘My turn, my turn.’

 

_We should christen your bed._

 

The room lurched back and forth. John felt ill, crushed under the weight of two artlessly coupling bodies. The girl peppered his face with sloppy kisses. Keith’s groaning mouth was pressed against her cheek. Oddly, John failed to be alarmed when he felt Keith’s hands slip from her body to his, mindlessly caressing.

 

_Your turn. My turn. Whose turn?_

 

He seized the girl and rolled over. Keith came too, and John landed somewhere in the middle of them.

 

_And why I’m so in love with you- with you- with you-_

 

He looked down at them both. The girl’s hand came up and stroked his chest. A drop of his sweat struck Keith’s collarbone. They grinned up at him, totally out of it, and from there he chose not to remember the rest.

 

_‘Music’s skipping again.’_

_‘For fuck's sake!’_

 

John blinked, eyes dry. His neck was stiff. He’d been staring out of the window for far too long. No, he definitely couldn’t remember anything else.

He had entered the girl again - that was a certainty - her legs and his legs and Keith’s legs all tangled together. Nothing more after that. Nothing more, except for when the three of them kissed, a rather unpleasant mess of tongue and teeth, and then a strong hand was on the back of his neck and the girl’s lips slipped away and Keith was there instead, only Keith, his mouth open and his body beneath and John realised through a fog that he was making love to them both, and with that he came apart with such suddenness that for a moment he was stark staring sober-

 

‘Are you still awake, John?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why are you up so late? You’ll get cold sat there. Come to bed.’

 

_I’m coming._

 

They lay together, staring at a ceiling blooming with damp.

‘Wow,’ said the girl. She began to giggle. The sound of it went on and on and on, shrill and unwelcome in the hush that had followed their fuck. John frowned. Keith wasn’t laughing, either. ‘Let’s all go to sleep.'

‘You can catch a cab from the main road,’ said Keith.

Her face fell. She sat up, outraged, clutching the sheets about her. ‘But it’s four in the morning!’

Keith regarded her coldly. She turned to John for sympathy, but, to his shame, he looked the other way.

They watched her leave. She hopped down the pavement while pulling on her slingbacks, her little frame drowned inside a coat that John had given her out of pity. His attention was briefly snagged by Keith’s reflection as he wandered naked from the room and shut the door. John returned reluctantly to the ruins of his bed.

 

It was late, and he was tired. John rose slowly from his chair as another memory resurfaced - one that he’d actually made a concerted effort to suppress - of a sunny day when Alison opened his bedside drawer and found the girl’s dainty girdle, months old and uncollected. The memory smelled of lilacs and smoke. There were peonies on the walls, and in front of them Alison’s face, white with fury. The floorboards were littered with mascara-blotted tissues as he laid his hands on hers, sitting side-by-side on that purgatorial bed; the confession was like turning himself inside-out, like hauling his guts through his mouth like a magician’s flags.

In the end, she forgave him.

 

\---

 

‘John.’

The hotel room lurched as his bed dipped down on one side. He rolled over, blinking against eyes thick with sleep. It was still dark. A voice. His name again. He groped about for the lamp, but his hands met a body, a smooth sinuous mass of unidentifiable limbs that crowded into him, joining him beneath the covers, carrying with it the chill of early morning.

He heard ‘I’m sorry,’, before two palms held his head in a tender vice and a mouth descended on his, soft and apologetic.

‘Keith,’ he said, though he still couldn’t see, and a breathless laugh pattered against his cheek.

‘Do you hate me?’

‘No,’ John replied, giddy with relief. ‘I’m just glad you came back.’

His eyes began to pick out Keith’s shape above him. ‘I don’t want you to leave,’ Keith said. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t.’

Another kiss. Keith latched onto him clumsily, all sharp nipping teeth and sticky lips, pushing the soft wet dart of his tongue right inside John’s mouth when he knew he’d accept it. John lay there, astounded, his heart swelling with gratitude. ‘I must be dreaming,’ he murmured, and Keith laughed again. He didn’t taste of alcohol, John noted. Just cigarettes, and the soft tickle of his hair against his nose carried only a suggestion of fresh air and sea salt. Dawn approached. When Keith kissed him minutes seemed like hours, and John was left wondering where the line would be drawn between them, if there was to be a line at all. He felt Keith press against his bare thigh, all hot and hard and eager, and it was a job to calm himself enough to take Keith in his arms and simply hold him tight instead. Keith relented without complaint. His body grew heavier as he sank into sleep. He must be exhausted, thought John. He watched the sky grow light with Keith’s head on his shoulder and an arm slung loosely across his torso. He looked at Keith’s hand where it lay on his chest, and the hasty ink scribble that smudged the back of it.

‘Room 409,’ it read. ‘Hotel Pez Espada.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuun  
>  **References:**  
>  Quarwood: John's country mansion in Gloucestershire. He lived there from 1978 until his death.  
> [Secret Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiueIiFJdN8), [Hive Full of Honey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uz-zsBwBe6M): Songs from the 1953 musical film Calamity Jane.


	3. You and Me

He was only a boy when he met Keith - a gangly, silent, faraway kind of a boy. He found it easier to be ignored, remaining placid and invisible beneath the thundercloud of his bandmates’ enormous clashing egos. But Keith had been inordinately interested in him from the beginning, for reasons he could never quite fathom. At first he disliked it, tried to deflect it so he could go back to his solitude as quickly as possible; but Keith, much to his dismay, proved irresistible.  
  
What was the first thing that Keith had said to him? John struggled to remember. It was normal for him to sit and think with a drink at his elbow, feeling worn and weary inside his opulent sitting room with the gleaming wood paneling, a million miles away from the shabby working mens’ clubs and pubs and dive bars of his youth. His nostalgic moods usually came at night, when the day was done and he had nothing else to turn his mind to.  
  
He’d made a move for bed, but knew he'd never sleep through this fresh bout of wakefulness. He returned to his chair with a fresh brandy instead.  
  
What had Keith said? Probably something like-  
  
‘ _Why the long face?_ ’  
  
John chuckled to himself. His laughter echoed around the enormous room, and for a moment he no longer felt like he was alone. Spooked, he glanced over his shoulder, just in case.  
  
Maybe it was-  
  
‘ _Smile, it makes ‘em wonder._ ’  
  
Both would have been met with a scowl.  
  
Regardless, it all began with the very first rehearsal with their newest member. Keith was standing over him, erect and confident, filling out every atom of his diminutive frame so that no one would be able to overlook him, not even for a moment. A child of sixteen or seventeen, then, with the prettiest face John had ever seen; he carried with him the soft, cherubic sheen of a mummy’s boy, a characteristic that he was immediately envious of.  
  
So, there they were, Keith looking down at him in the same way a cynical child might look at a lonely animal in a zoo, John fiddling with his tuning pegs, pretending that he wasn’t there. The minutes ticked by, and Keith still hadn't budged. John's hand started sweating around the neck of his bass. Suddenly the wooden bench he was sitting on dipped and squeaked, and he looked up, startled. Keith was no longer standing in front of him, but sitting next him, leaning back against the wall and serenely scanning the room while sucking noisily on a boiled sweet. John blinked. Keith smiled at him, but said nothing more.  
  
It was a form of courtship, John realised. Every rehearsal, without fail, Keith would meander over to him and make a little one-sided conversation, then stick to him like glue. John felt like he was being tamed, the way Keith was trying to crack him, to gain his trust. He wanted to resent it, but found it impossible. He couldn’t dislike him no matter how hard he tried.

 

  
  
  
  
‘John. John. Wake up.’  
  
John smiled muzzily, blinking against the heaviness of his eyelids. He cleared his throat noisily, his mouth gone sour and tarry. Keith was still in his arms.  
  
‘I’m gettin’ lonely without you,’ he heard Keith say quietly. There was a finger drawing small circles on his chest.  
  
John stretched, sighing through his nose. ‘M'awake. I'm awake now.’  
  
Keith wriggled further up the bed until they were nose to nose. John could've counted his eyelashes. He echoed John's slow smile, his gaze soft. Butterflies fizzed and fluttered in John's stomach. ‘Mm. Good morning.’  
  
‘Mornin’,’ replied Keith, with a hint of a smirk. Their lips brushed, moist skin snagging.  
  
  
  
John was having trouble processing everything that had happened to him the previous night. He resisted the urge to pinch himself, expecting to be back in an empty room in the blink of an eye. Keith liked him. Keith wanted him. He laughed out loud at that, overcome by his luck and the wonderful absurdity of it all. As if he'd understood, Keith brightened, swooping down to press a hard, wet kiss to his cheek. ‘Mwah!’ he said, grinning hugely, and John giggled like a schoolboy. The bed shook with it. One for the other cheek, one for his forehead, the tip of his nose, and one for his chin. John tried to push him off, but his arms had gone all funny and limp. ‘Keith,’ he hiccoughed, ‘stop it, you’re slobberin’ all over me!’ God, he was almost delirious; he’d barely slept.  
  
‘John? Oi… don’t go to sleep again...’ There were fingers toying with his hair, a thumb rubbing at the crease between his eyebrows. ‘Come on, it’s almost ten. The maids’ll come knocking soon.’  
  
Bright sunshine blazed pink through John’s eyelids. Keith’s squirming weight was flattening him into the mattress. He cracked open his eyes and glimpsed the writing on the back of Keith's hand. His stomach dropped. He’d forgotten about that.  
  
‘Keith,’ he mumbled, ‘Keith, why’d you go see that man?’  
  
‘What man?’  
  
He made a clumsy grab for Keith’s hand as it flapped about in his blurry peripheral vision. ‘The man that was talking to you the other night. Hotel Pez… whatever it was. The writing on your hand.’  
  
‘I dunno what you’re on about. I didn’t go anywhere.’  
  
John opened his eyes properly as Keith clambered off and sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. He noticed a fresh bruise just below his ear, a tiny round purple one, ringed with red indentations. He looked at it for a long while. ‘Why are you lying?’ he asked.  
  
‘I’m not lying,’ Keith snapped, his back tensing.  
  
‘Alright. Sorry.’  
  
Keith gave him a measured look over his shoulder. ‘I’m not.’  
  
‘Okay, okay.’  
  
‘I swear on me mother’s life-’  
  
‘I believe you,’ said John firmly, though he wasn't entirely convinced. He placed a reassuring hand over Keith’s. ‘Let’s not argue anymore.’  
  
Apparently satisfied, Keith returned his head to John's shoulder. ‘Let’s not argue anymore,’ he echoed wistfully. ‘We’ll do those things you said. We’ll go and see your stupid church.’  
  
‘And the carnival?’  
  
‘Yeah.’  
  
‘I’m glad you came back,’ sighed John. His eyelids began to droop.  
  
‘I’m glad you stayed.’  
  
They slept fitfully in the climbing morning heat, bare limbs knotted together on top of the sheets. They didn’t wake till the maids came pounding on the door.

 

 

  
‘It’, as John remembered it, happened the day Keith took him to see his first horror flick; or rather, smuggled them in through the back door when nobody was looking. They sat and talked loudly through the entire showing, feet up on the chairs in front, cramming their faces with purloined sweets while adding their own commentary and sound effects. They laughed until tears came streaming down their faces, sides aching, earning the scorn of the only other patron who wasn’t sleeping or sticking their tongue down their girlfriend’s throat.  
  
John’s eyes were drawn to a particular young couple as they enthusiastically explored one another in the dark, the light from the screen glimpsed between their open mouths as they joined and broke away, over and over. Keith was trying to chuck stale popcorn from the floor into the girl’s hair. John watched them, overwhelmed with curiosity. He’d kissed Alison like that before, though not in a place like this - in here you knew you had to draw the line somewhere, and that, he supposed, was the appeal. You drove each other mad, got the itch that had you fleeing the joint as soon as the lights went up and rushing to the nearest horizontal surface to finish what you started. He looked over at Keith, who’d since gotten bored of launching popcorn missiles and turned his attention back to the screen, quietly enthralled by the action. He seemed so innocent, so childlike, that John was taken aback. And, at that the moment, he was consumed with the strangest urge- the urge to kiss him. He tried to focus on the film again, then found that he couldn’t. The idea had grabbed him and now refused to let him go. It was frightening. He hastily tried to insert Alison back into the scenario, imagined her perfume and her soft leg under his hand - but then Keith would be there, unwilling to leave, the taste of him alien, metallic, masculine, his eyes dark and his little hand in John’s lap, touching him-  
  
‘That was great!’  
  
John was yanked back into reality by Keith’s voice. The film was over.  
  
‘Come on,’ Keith said, brushing empty sweet wrappers onto the floor. ‘Let’s get out of here before they collar us.’  
  
John stumbled dazedly into the aisle, almost colliding with a girl who’d just emerged from the back row; her boyfriend was trailing behind her, pulling up his trousers. Some people were clearly more impatient than others.  
  
He slipped with Keith through the door they’d used to get in, sidestepping overflowing bins and puddles before emerging into the autumn sun.

His mind never did find its way out of that dark auditorium.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The bull lumbered around the ring, the sand tossed in great arcs beneath its hooves. A loud commotion followed its every charge. John glanced sideways to see Keith watching open-mouthed, neither afraid nor excited, the skin of his face slightly ashen. Blood ran in great rivers over the bull’s oily hide. It bolted and then skittered to a stop, it bellowed and pawed the earth, and the rolling whites of its eyes were visible even from high up in the stands where they sat. John fought the impulse to turn away.  
  
‘I wish that bullfighting pouf had gotten trampled on,’ remarked Keith later as they walked back to the hotel. ‘That’s what I really wanted to see.’  
  
The bull sank to the ground, defeated. A great cheer shook the stands, handkerchiefs flitting like wings in the air. The sword protruding from its neck caught the sun, blades of light tossed in all directions. At last, John covered his eyes.  
  
‘I mean that sequined getup, and his arse wiggling about in those tight trousers. Just who was he trying to impress?’  
  
‘The bull, obviously.’  
  
‘Actually, I think you’d look rather good dressed like that,’ added Keith mischievously. Something in his tone of voice suggested that he was only half-joking.  
  
John laughed. The lingering nausea was starting to pass. ‘Yeah, right.’  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Keith picked up the empty sleeve and flipped it over. ‘“ _The Sound of Music_ ”.’  
  
‘It’s a favourite of Mum’s.’  
  
Keith brightened. ‘Well, let’s put it on!’ He started up the player, dropped the needle into the groove. ‘Mrs Entwistle!’ he called. ‘Mum, we’re putting on your favourite!’  
  
John glanced towards the kitchen door. No reply. The opening notes of the record filled the room, as pure as chiming crystal. They remained silent for a moment, listening.  
  
‘Pretty,’ remarked Keith. ‘Is it all like this?’  
  
‘Er, no.’  
  
On the final amen Keith turned, eyes raised ceilingward and with hands clasped dramatically in prayer, startling a laugh out of John. Keith grinned, and subsequently treated every song with the same kind of cheerful disrespect; pulling ugly faces at the heartfelt bits, throwing himself around the room (‘I’m _dancing_ ,’ he huffed as John scolded him for almost knocking over a lamp), and, when he began to pick up a tune, he sang. His attempt at The Lonely Goatherd brought John to his knees, immobilised by silent laughter. Keith demanded to know what was so funny between bouts of tuneless shrieking.  
  
The volume got pushed up and up, distorting the sound grotesquely. At this point John was certain the windows were rattling.  
  
Mum’s voice from the kitchen filtered through the din. ‘Boys? You’re being very loud.’  
  
‘Sorry, Mum,’ John shouted back. ‘Keith-’  
  
‘ _Odl lay ee, odl lay ee, odl lay hee hee-_ ’  
  
John covered his ears. ‘Keith-’  
  
‘Boys!’  
  
Keith sucked in an enormous lungful of air. ‘ _Odl lay EE_ -’  
  
Mum slip-slapped out of the kitchen, bits of potato peel stuck to her pruney hands. ‘John, what’s all this racket? Why can’t you be sensible?’  
  
Keith looked suitably shamefaced, hastily reducing the volume of the player to a less ear-splitting level. ‘Sorry.’  
  
‘Never mind, dear,’ she sighed. ‘Remember, John, we have _quiet_ fun in this house.’  
  
With that, she shuffled back to her potatoes.  
  
‘I’ve never heard “quiet” and “fun” used in the same sentence before,’ wondered Keith under his breath.  
  
‘Clearly,’ muttered John.  
  
Nevertheless, The Sound of Music became a regular fixture during Keith’s visits. They would wait until Mum popped to the shops before sticking it on, finding something newly absurd and amusing with every listen. Sometimes they waltzed back and forth across the carpet, passing neighbours peering curiously at them through the net curtains. Keith became fiercely jealous of John’s yodelling abilities.  
  
One afternoon Mum came home early and embarrassed John into singing Edelweiss. ‘He’s known all the words ever since we bought it,’ she informed Keith proudly. John mumbled along to the music, face burning. Now and then he glanced at Keith, daring him to laugh, but he simply sat there patiently and listened along with Mum, straight-backed and well-behaved in her presence. For a moment John hated him without really knowing why. He rushed the end and sat glumly through their joint round of applause. ‘Wasn’t that nice?’ cooed Mum.  
  
‘Yeah!’ exclaimed Keith, eyes bright. John listened carefully for any trace of derision, but then - why did he care?  
  
  
  
  
  
The town grew sleepy in the early afternoon. They trudged back to their hotel room through empty corridors, the hot air pushed around by rows of lazily spinning ceiling fans.  
  
Keith had already begun to undress before John had even unlocked the door. It was a little cooler in the room, the windows having been covered with blinds by the maids. Slivers of light struck the carpet and rippled over Keith’s limbs. He flopped onto his bed, naked. John remained where he was beside the door. He was reminded of previous illicit afternoons in his teens when he’d kept company as sweet as this; the painful arousal, the nerves, the dry-mouthed anticipation; they returned to him even now.  
  
‘Why are you still wearing clothes?’ murmured Keith sleepily. It’s so hot.’  
  
John began to pick awkwardly at the knot of his tie.  
  
‘That fight got me all stirred up,’ said Keith absently, looking away. John saw the tip of his tongue pass along his upper lip.  
  
‘Me too,’ he replied, and it was true, though he had no idea why. He felt tense, agitated even, brimming with some unnameable thing that was begging to be sweated out.  
  
Keith rolled over, his head cradled inside the crook of his elbow. ‘Come here,’ he said softly, stretching out across the covers. His eyes were very dark.  
  
John dropped his tie and slowly crossed the room.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
‘You’re very good at singing,’ Keith had told him that one distant, tender afternoon at John’s house, just as he was getting ready to go home.  
  
‘I like to sing,’ acknowledged John, not wanting to be reminded of his earlier performance. ‘Doesn’t mean I’m any good at it.’ The memory of him unselfconsciously desecrating the melody at sixteen while his family listened side-by-side on the settee seemed a very long time ago, as if it belonged to somebody else. ‘Thanks, though,’ he added belatedly, having forgotten his manners.  
  
‘S’alright. See you tomorrow, yeah?’ Keith opened the front door and threw him a parting smile. ‘Bye.’  
  
‘Bye,’ echoed John, feeling strange; kind of warm and silly, out of sorts.  
  
‘Bye, Mum!’ Keith yelled into the house, but left without waiting for a reply.  
  
Mum was making tea by the cooker. ‘Is he gone?’  
  
‘Yeah.’  
  
‘Such a nice boy,’ she remarked, wiping a spill from the countertop. ‘Noisy, but nice.’  
  
Mum equated being noisy with being common, which was why the house was always sleeping, why John barely moved or spoke within its four walls. But when Keith arrived it resonated with life - it was dangerous and thrilling, an unexpected gift that he had no idea how to accept or be thankful for. The rooms rang with Keith’s presence long after he’d gone, like the ghost of a song that leaves you reeling, stuck stubbornly between yours ears.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Voices passed outside the door.  
  
_Buenas tardes senor. ¿Cómo estás?_  
  
‘Be quiet,’ whispered John desperately against Keith’s ear. ‘Someone’ll hear us.’  
  
Thundering footsteps. Rattling trays. The muffled bray of tourists on the street beneath the balcony.  
  
Keith’s teeth snagged on John’s palm as he twisted his head sideways into the covers, his face pink and glistening. John saw the pulse leap in his neck. He kissed there, and under the tilt of his chin, too, and the swell of his Adam’s apple and the hollow of his throat. Keith’s teeth clamped down between John’s thumb and forefinger; he made a pathetic, choked off noise, struggling underneath him. Saliva mingled with blood.  
  
_Let’s go to the beach! Race you down there!_  
  
Now Keith was kneeling over him, merely a silhouette. The blinds shivered with a fresh breeze that came straight off the sea. There was the cry of seagulls, a radio in a nearby room, the sound of their heavy breathing and the smooth shift of fabric beneath them; he paused long enough to see Keith’s head come up and loll briefly between his shoulders, overwhelmed. ‘Come on,’ John said gently, smoothing a hand over his thigh, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Keep going.’ Keith's knees were either side of him, his feet placed somewhere near the headboard, his head between John’s legs. John reached up and pulled him down by the hips, opened up boldly and swallowed him, deep enough to make Keith groan with his mouth full. His taste was salt.  
  
_Yo te quiero verdad, te lo voy a demostrar..._  
  
It wasn’t long before Keith forgot his task altogether.  
  
_Si confias tú en mi, puedo hacerte muy feliz..._  
  
‘More, John- _please-_ ’  
  
He wished he could see Keith’s face, but for now he would settle for the pleading and the bit-back cries that filled that little room, the way his body trembled beneath his touch. ‘Keep going,’ John said again, gulping unevenly around the bitterness on his tongue, trying to steady the boneless weight that was threatening to collapse on top of him. Keith kept going.  
  
_...Los Brincos... la siguiente canción..._  
  
Every fibre in his body just kept reeling in and in and in until he felt coiled tight as a spring, and when he climaxed his mind was wiped clean, just for a second; he fought against the words that threatened to spill out and shame him, simply panting dumbly at the ceiling instead, flooded with warmth and relief.  
  
Keith spat into his hand and wiped it on the covers.  
  
They lay together for a little while afterwards, Keith’s head pillowed by John’s arm. They didn’t talk. John’s body was in the midst of a rubbery kind of bliss - he didn’t care if he never had to move or speak again. But Keith kept fidgeting, leaping from inspecting his nails to craning his neck to see through the blinds to bumping his heels up and down on the mattress like a swimmer treading water on his back.  
  
‘Do you want to get up?’  
  
Keith sat up and stretched at once, scrubbing a hand through his tousled hair. ‘We’ll go out tonight,' he said, in a way that meant he couldn’t be argued with.  
  
‘Did you like that?’ asked John, propping himself up on his elbows.  
  
‘Uh-huh.’  
  
‘Would you do it again?’  
  
Another ‘uh-huh’, light and non-committal. Keith disappeared into the bathroom.  
  
John stayed where he was, listening anxiously to the hiss of the water in the shower tray. Something was off. Perhaps this was all a mistake, he thought. Keith was unpredictable at the best of times. He was the sort that you should only admire at arm's length; a wise person would've kept it that way.  
  
There was something different in the air here, something that had made him prone to fantasy, but the reality was this: Keith spelled trouble.  
  
Nevertheless, growing aroused once more at the thought of Keith’s smooth skin under the hot spray - John wasn’t sure if he was ready to turn back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish courtesy of Google translate (I don't know any) so I apologise for any mistakes! This chapter is much longer, padded out with an older fic I'd written as a kind of backstory, taking place between '64 and '65. This is truly a Frankenstein's monster of a fic.  
>  **References:**  
>  Songs: [Preludium](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdhSLVLRddk), [The Lonely Goatherd](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXTmdjBo58E), [Laendler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thTrncFnsGY), [Edelweiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jX8q0gjg-rg) \- The Sound of Music, cast recording from 1959 (I have no idea if John's mother liked musicals, but I do, so in they go haha)  
> [Tú en mí](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p8YZVk1MtIQ) \- Los Brincos


End file.
